It used to soar above the sandy dunes in the salted summer sea air. The kite had green and black stripes around the edges and an iris in the middle. It was the best gift my father gave me. One night, I dreamed I slept in a cocoon and woke up a kite, tethered by a thin steel thread to a spool held by my father’s strong hands.
Now, it lies limp, lifeless and covered in mud.
The policeman takes off his cap:
“Andrew, there’s been an accident. Your father…”
His voice drags on like the snapped string of my kite.